


SP Why So Sad (Absolutely Perfect)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-06
Updated: 2008-03-06
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: When Alex Krycek met Dean Winchester, it was not luck. He deserved it.





	SP Why So Sad (Absolutely Perfect)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Look at those two gorgeous guys. Then think "out of the box" and enjoy the story.

  
Author's notes: Look at those two gorgeous guys. Then think "out of the box" and enjoy the story.   


* * *

SP Why So Sad (Absolutely Perfect)

## SP Why So Sad (Absolutely Perfect)

### by Griva

##### [Story Headers]

  


So Why So Sad (Absolutely Perfect), parts 1 and 2 

Fandom: the X Files/ Supernatural   
Pairing: Alex Krycek/Dean Winchester  
(hints at Mulder/Krycek in the past)   
POV: Krycek's   
Rating: R overall, some chapters will be NC-17 Beta'd by Jynn 

* * *

Timeline: for Krycek, it's within a month since Requiem. His looks and experiences he's   
had by that time, are within canon, except that he has managed to get away from Russia   
badly injured, but his left arm intact. For Dean, it's 100% canon first season, then an AU   
right after 2x01 ep. In My Time Of Dying. He's alone and on the breadline. Right now he's not   
with Sam, and not with John. You heard me right. It's complicated, but I'll unravel it as   
the story unfolds.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**  
**THURSDAY**

This wasn't even a town, but a scattering of motels, bars, diners, truck stops and trailer parks by a busy interstate on the border of Illinois and Missouri. People coming, people going, a perfect place to blend in, lie low, yet be relaxed enough to show up at the bar counter and nurse a vodka, observing the people without being watched. 

He came here again tonight only to watch the guy. The poker hustler had a true cocksucker's lips. Alex Krycek's last hard-won challenge was an artwork of a mouth, pouty and pliant, capricious like a woman's. But here was the open invitation Alex came around more often for and could not resist: a firm outline, the perfect shape of a man's obstinate mouth. Just insert cock "here" and go through the motions. 

The man was young, twenty something tops and good looking in the manner that had the high price of looking meant blindness, yet Alex would have looked at him anyway. Of moderate height, he still stuck out from the crowd. He was wearing a tee, a plain dark shirt with a denim one on top and a leather jacket, all in layers, as it was wont with the young studs now. Maybe these were all the clothes he had, for during the three days Alex had watched him, the clothes stayed the same. Or maybe they were his lucky charm. To whatever of the three clubs on the circuit he went, he never complained for lack of companions who'd throw their money on the table and try their luck. For all Alex had learned, he played draw poker or stud, but was lucky in both. 

The first day Alex saw him was on Tuesday, and he kept on raising the stakes, thus seeding off at once those who could only bet a twenty. His hands moved deftly, dealing the cards, and he would touch his lip with his thumb occasionally and quirk his brow as he looked at his lot. Sometimes, Alex noticed, he hardly even looked at the cards, as if certain he got the right ones. From careless banter of the waitresses whom, not depending on either their hair color or breast size, gave a warm welcome to any decent looking representative of the male species who left them a tip, Alex learned that the guy's name was Dean. He liked the clear sound of the name. No, he was not local, but as they did not have a dealer before, when Dean turned up, they took him in for a try, and he proved to be such a charmer. He had drinks on the house for he'd been here for a week - kind of a local attraction - and never lost a hand, until yesterday. They said he lost several hundreds yesterday at Paw's across the creek, but he surely will regroup and compensate the loss today. Alex knew of yesterday's setback because on Wednesday the crowd wasn't very thick at Paw's and he has witnessed Dean's defeat, which indeed seemed to have been his first in a long time. 

Alex didn't know how to play poker, and for the first time in his life he regretted it. He was a quick study of many useful things, but he'd known faster ways to earn a living. Also, he was of the firmest belief that the safest way to double your money was to fold it over once and put it in your pocket. Damn, Alex smirked in his glass, he must indeed be getting old to sit back and watch. Had it been half a decade ago, he'd have propositioned straightaway, but he seldom found comfort lately, even in strangers. This was one of the rare times Alex remembered he was less than two-years short of forty. A small consolation was that the guy didn't seem to be interested in anything but the game and the players, and when he did get up for a piss break, a hotshot or to leave, he would only pass a superficial flirty joke with the girls who would wipe the table after him. 

There was a sudden cheer and a whistle at the guy's table. He's lost another round. Alex craned his neck and could see the young man shrug and then roll his eyes as he opened the cards, the man with a cowboy hat as wide as an airfield in front of him beaming and taking the win. 

"What was the bet?" Alex asked the waitress. 

"Three hundred", she shook her head in surprise and disappointment, as if the money was hers. 

Money won was twice as sweet as money earned. The man with the hat apparently did not wish to test his luck again so showed the money to the onlookers, as if it was some kind of a precious thing, and cheered again. Then he headed to the bar with a few pals who were obviously hoping for a free drink from him, 

"I took him, I took him, you saw!" the man kept repeating and the buddies all clapped him on the knee and shoulder and clanked their glasses. Annoyed by the bustle around him, Alex used the moment to move to Dean's table. Loss seemed to have doubled the number of spectators and Alex thought maybe this was just an act on Dean's side. His height being a very good advantage countless times for Alex, he could quite clearly see the guy dealing the cards once again. There were two hundred dollars at stake and he'd won almost effortlessly, after hardly ten minutes' worth of a game. The dozen men of different belly sizes yet all of the same road-tripping scruffy dress code, murmured and elbowed each other, as Dean looked at them, without saying a word, his look an invitation. Alex smirked to himself that maybe the guy indeed had a lucky charm or a sixth finger, for he radiated self-confidence that only came from a long practice of winning. Alex knew that look. Knew the manner. But the life he'd spent mostly undercover had taught him the hard way to keep the look toned down. 

One instant he and Dean crossed looks-the latter's was half invitation, half a question, his smooth lips moved in something like "you?" Alex let a small smile touch his lips, yet he shook his head mouthing "No thanks." He knew that the guy had noticed him already the day before and marked him, possibly because Alex still could not resist and dressed all in but sharp black when he was "off duty". Now, among the bikers, truck drivers and occasional hitchhikers he was singled out. But maybe it was just Alex's vanity speaking since he still felt Dean's eyes on him for a few seconds if only because he had just acknowledged he did not know how to play. 

Soon the empty chairs were filled with three men, each betting a hundred, and Dean had to make a forced bet, to create an initial stake for which the players will contest. He had a stack of bills in the center, several hundreds Alex guessed. He was reckless; Alex added another trait to the portrait. He was flaunting his fortune in a bar that hosted a motley crew of people. Maybe he had a knife or a gun in that jacket for protection. Alex almost hoped he did. Alex did believe a man can have luck in gambling, but there wasn't a charm to ward off robbery or death. He wondered also, if the guy was so deft, why wasn't he ripping old billionaires off in Las Vegas? He only needed to buy a starched shirt and a bowtie and he'd look like a James Bond Jr. But possibly here he had no competitors, unlike many among the swell mob in that capital of sin. 

Despite the chilly October evening outside, it was getting hot and stinky inside. The crowd mostly guzzled beer, the slot machines gave off rings and five rowdy construction workers played pool. Alex did not like the smell of human sweat. Generally, Alex did not like humans at all, with only few exceptions. 

What happened next, would have made Alex satisfied because that would have proved his deep belief that sooner or later even the best luck runs out on you. But he became partial of Dean (if only for those lips and the wry smirk and hard look) and he felt a pang of sympathy when the threesome issued almost an acapello howl of triumph and one of them swept all the cash, clapping Dean on the shoulder, as if thankful. The younger men reacted with dignity that betrayed experience at both defeat and victory, congratulating the buddies heartily. He looked laid back, but there was a moment Alex thought he noticed Dean gritting his teeth. Then Alex could not see him clearly as the people excitedly moved around him and he even had to elbow someone to make way. That was when he felt a short vibe of his smart-phone in the breast pocket of the jacket. That might mean he'll have to go on a short trip tomorrow. He was cautious: he chose a place to stay that had no wireless or land internet connection, to escape any temptation to access his bank account or email in the same location he has been staying. The county center was about an hour's drive, and would go there in the morning. 

When he turned his attention to the gambling corner again, the last defeat brought more willing players to Dean's table. Alex decided to stay at the bar, nibbling peanuts and sharing his attention between an eternal translation of a basketball match and the dish-girl commenting on what was going on. Luck has taken a curveball on the guy because during the following hour Dean won only fifty and lost a small fortune. That apparently was a palpable blow to Dean's demeanor and solvency, because he called it quits for the night. 

It was not yet midnight, but Alex felt somewhat under the weather and his left arm, the old familiar knot of scars, reminded it of itself by an echo of ache. He swallowed the last dregs of his drink and left Daisy a generous tip, who hardly noticed because her eyes were full of Dean, who suddenly appeared within a quick grab and beckoned for a bottled drink. Defeat was an aphrodisiac for some women for men turned to them for comfort, Alex groaned inwardly. With such looks the young man apparently did not have to lose often to have a constant supply of fresh flesh. Alex did not want to be obnoxious and stare, so he stood up to move, but then felt something was subtly off. For Alex it was customary how he could feel someone looking at him, examining him from out of the corners of his eyes. That's exactly what Dean was doing. It was disquieting. Alex did not expect to meet anyone who'd look at him this way in this backwater: giving him the "what are you worth" look and "can I win if I tackle you down" look. 

"Excuse me," he dropped as he brushed against Dean's shoulder, as he made his first steps to the exit. 

That made Dean make direct eye contact, and he huffed a barely audible "It's nuthin'," as he put the bottle of Bud onto the table. He looked up at Krycek again and in the dim close up Alex saw that they looked quite alike: some difference in height, almost the same short hair, Dean's was of a lighter shade. Same basic build, sharp dark eyes and they even shared the same dented chin and vertical frown. It was becoming amusing. What was he, a narcissist? Looking for a younger brother to fuck? What would his best enemy's at the FBI comment on that? 

"Bad Day at the Hard Rock, eh?" Alex said, just because he needed another moment to study the man in front of him. It would single him out as unusual if he did NOT say anything to Dean. 

"It's fickle," Dean's voice held a rough edge as he spoke about his lack of luck, but he shrugged it off as if it was his everyday. There was an amulet on a string around his neck that looked like a humanoid head with bull-like horns and he had several thin black bracelets around his wrists that looked as if they were made of some kind of hair. 

"I know," Alex almost answered but bit it down. Daisy chirped in with her condolences as meaningful as her cleavage, and he left at that, hearing Dean calling Daisy "dolly" and bragging that tomorrow the luck will be on all fours for him at the Scales. The last glimpse Alex caught was Dean licking beer-foam from his lip. It made Alex want to grab his crotch beneath the table. It'd been awhile since anyone made him horny that quick. 

**CHAPTER 2**  
**FRIDAY**

He was unsure why he was going to the Scales tonight. Quite possibly Dean was not what he pretended he was, but Alex did not perceive any signs Dean could be here because or after him. He was just being paranoid. Maybe the constant, low-level buzz of his humanity was part of the reason Alex had been having trouble sleeping lately. When he did sleep, it was just a few hours around two or three in the morning, then he took a long jog and a contrasting shower, jerking off to a kaleidoscopic whirl of still frames, mainly of Dean-the-poker-dealer with his mouth bloody, reluctant yet horny, begging to be fucked raw on the pool table, and the FBI's most unwanted, in full Armani armor except the trousers, sucking his own cock. Then he pictured the corpse of the man whom he hated most, exhaling cigarette smoke, hovering over the three of them and laughing, and perversely, it was enough to spur him on. He crammed his left hand into his mouth as he came, biting his knuckles to muffle the sound that was half laughter-half moan. 

After a moderate breakfast, he drove to Perryville, and spent almost the whole day there. It was sunny, yet the first frost nipped at his nose. The alarm had been false: no one was looking for him, no one seemed to need his services, and for now, with a regular automatic cash transmission from an offshore bank, he was his own man. He knew it wouldn't last, maybe another week, but it was a respite before "something". An optimist would say that he has nowhere to go but up. A pessimist would say that FBI's custody always awaited his return. Mulder would say that he'd very much enjoyed killing his way to the top. But it did not matter. Mulder was gone and took all the fun with him. 

Realistically, Alex could always go back to Russia. But there he would always be troubled by bad memories of hospitals that put Hostel creators to shame. His accent became too heavy to mingle without noticing even in Moscow that swarmed with foreigners and expats. Not to mention that FSB was always late with reimbursements of his expense. He would stay in the States, where, he was sure, the Smoker's chair will never stay empty for long. The fractions in the Consortium were always shifting, like Rubik cube's segments, the fight for power and control over research of alien technologies never ceasing. Alex had a certain reputation in those circles, it went ahead of him and stayed unchanging not depending where his personal loyalties lay. 

Out of the three clubs Alex disliked the Scales most. It was the noisiest, filthiest and had no face control at all. It proudly called itself the "dub-club for everyone" with the music blaring, and lights flashing at almost ten when the crowd has warmed up. He could not locate Dean at first, and he almost left, for the bar was a bustle and ridiculously overpriced and someone was asking for a fight at the pool area. Alex thought maybe Dean was there, but then if he was and in a fight, why would Alex care? Dean didn't look like a cookie-cutter. Maybe Alex should pick up someone, one of those girls of unclear age, but certainly past the age of consent, who were there in a cluster, chirping and chain-smoking. Where the girls were, he found also the rest of the guys: about a dozen of them, who looked like the band Motorhead on the road in between charity gigs. Might have been bikers, might have been dope pushers. He spotted Dean finally, who was at the table in the farther corner, which was also quieter. Again, he was playing against three... His jacket was off, his shirt unbuttoned, and the flickering lights made his bright eyes and teeth stand out. He might have been winning earlier, but right now he was not smiling, brows drawn in concentration for the bill next to him as if it was his last bet. 

"You've cheated, you motherfucker!" the Beard threw his cards into Dean's face right as Alex found the free spot practically next to Dean. 

"Hey calm down, buddy, don't you take it like a pussy," Dean reacted, raising his voice, as if guileless, but the man and his friends were of a different opinion. The usual "who you're calling a friggin' pussy" shouting match scenario was ahead. Alex did not want to be in the first row of spectators for the drunken brawl, but it seemed to die down suddenly despite the crowd cheering the participants up actively. He moved to the bar stool as the area cleared a bit, people mostly relocating to the pool tables and slot machines. 

"Update me on the local celebrity, honey," he used his best voice asking the barwoman who looked like homemade J-Lo with dreadlocks. 

"Wasting money like this, he ain't gonna be a celebrity for long", she grumbled, blowing a bubble with her pink bubblegum. "Missy says he came in with a thousand, lost half, then bet it all. Now looks like he's got it back. Makes them rockabilly guys much unhappy." 

"The guys are obviously wasted, wonder why he sat down playing against them at all," Alex noted. 

"Wasted or not, no one likes cheating, and no nosey strangers either, you cat-eyed cutie!" She noted and winked. Alex smiled automatically, nodding as if in understanding. Staff selection at the Scales sucked too. The chances of picking up anyone decent here, irrelevant of gender, were slim. 

For Dean luck apparently went to some other guy to bend over this night. The bets were low, and as he was apparently not willing to put all his remaining money at stake, the game lagged. The Motorhead guys gulped more alcohol and kept on raffling, booing and calling him a "cheatin' ho" and a dirty moocher. It ended with Dean kicking his chair wholeheartedly and exiting the club, a few women sighing and most men jeering. No one seemed to try and barter blows with him, though. 

Nothing wittier than "I can make your day better if you let me suck your cock" turned up in Alex's head and he definitely was not trying that particular come on reserved for dirty old men. He'd just wasted a good boner. Without the handsome hustler the club was a dump. He stayed for five more minutes then headed to the exit. 

* * *

Outside, it was a relief to breathe clean air. Alex wondered what kind of car Dean drove. He had disappeared too fast out of Alex's site. He was curious if Dean had a trailer to sleep in or maybe he went back to Paw's. A man on wobbly legs and with bleary eyes asked him for a light, but Krycek had none. Then he recognized one of the Motorhead men. His knees were muddy, yet his eyes sparkled with glee. He lit a cig from a passer by, then wandered away to a cluster of beat-up vans, where his buddies still cheered and clinked bottles. 

Immediately Alex had a feeling in his gut that only getting their lost bet back could have made them so happy. There was no doubt the hustler got himself into a fix. Men do nasty things by nature. They can't help it. Gamblers, hookers and double-dealers are usually the first to learn that. Alex told himself it's out of solidarity he had to check on what Dean could have gotten into. 

He looked around, looking for the best place for an assault. He went around the house, to the backyard. The only lit spot there was where garbage containers stood and all kinds of junk littered the ground. Then there was a broken chicken wire fence. Further shadows deepened and an old rusty warning sign marked there was a slant to the hill the club stood on. There was a shallow gulley at its bottom. Alex knew where to step, having surveyed the place in daylight. There were shaky stairs that led downward, but if one didn't know they were there, one would easily stumble down and break a leg. 

On the brink to nowhere, Alex peered into the darkness below, and thought he heard a rustle. 

"Hey, anyone there?" he called out. 

"Yeah, me!" he heard the familiar voice, then a string of curses. 

"I can't see you. You need a hand?" Alex asked. 

"Better if it was two," it was clearly Dean who answered. Alex first head branches snapping then saw a body moving, trying to climb up the slant, then sliding down again. Alex grabbed at random, felt his own feet slipping, the handle of the pitiable construction they called stairs shook under his weight. Then he caught a handful of wet leather, solid shoulder underneath his hand. He pulled up with a grunt, and Dean stumbled right out of the dark pit, butting him in the chest from the impact. He was a mess, but mostly from the fall than from the fight. When they stumbled back toward the pool of yellow light, Alex saw that there was mud all over Dean's jeans, his jacket and even his face. His legs were wet in front, as if he'd first fallen face down in the gulley, then rolled to his back and fought back. 

"You should have zipped up better man," Alex commented against his will, grinning. 

"That's what my Dad always told me, but did I listen?" with all the gravity of the situation, the comeback came easy, and the piss joke didn't seem to abrade Dean. 

The man doubled over, then exhaled loudly. There was a scratch on his forehead, and he was clutching his left side. When he peered back at Alex, recognition softened his hard look. 

"Ah, the man in black. You came here to mark the spot or you were following me?" Alex liked the sound of Dean's voice, low yet clear and expressive. One did not have to guess what he meant when he talked. 

"Don't I get a thank you?" Alex inquired in his best civil voice, and ignored the statement of fact that he was obvious in his pursuit. He did not try to hide it hard. Either Dean was rude and knew no gratitude or his mind was elsewhere at the moment, for he kept going through his pockets, his breathing still labored from the climb. 

"Those Z.Z.Top wannabies, they caught up with you?" 

The raspy coughing sound Alex heard was Dean trying not to laugh at his impromptu comparison. Then he stopped, his face hardening instantly. 

"They waited for me here, when I went to take a breath, tripped me up and pulled me down into the gully. They took all my fuckin' money." 

"How much?" 

"About half a gran." 

"Ouch." 

Dean mimicked his grimace, showing that Alex didn't need to demonstrate his sympathy. 

As if reaching for his phone in his pocket, Alex offered to call the police. 

"Why the trouble?" Dean shrugged, a bit too offhandedly for Alex not to notice. "Easy come, easy go." 

This didn't sound as careless as he intended it too, but Dean wanted to look like a tough cookie. Alex loved it though. 

"You have a car?" 

"Yeah. Not here." With his hand Dean made a sign of unclear direction. 

"I can give you a ride," Alex offered, keeping to the same offhand tone. Even though it would mean cleaning the car salon tomorrow. 

"Thankees," Dean gave him a clearly assessing look now. "When there are bad people, there are always good ones, eh?" 

That's how God works, Alex would have parried, but for now he put the smartass on hold. Alex could feel suspicion gel the air between them as they stared at each other. Dean was not easily trusting. That was something Alex could always relate to. 

"My shelf for pickled human heads is full, and the Moon is waning tonight, so I will turn my best side to lonely strangers," Alex quirked. He did not expect Dean to have cocked his ears at this. 

"You're not serious, right?" 

Alex rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm not." He let irritation in his voice show. "The place stinks. I want out. Where do you stay?" 

"Waterry." 

Alex gaped. 

"Man, it's almost five miles from here. And you walk here every day?" 

"Keeps me fit," Dean snorted, and this time Alex could not assess if he was serious. But definitely weird. 

"Might get you mugged tonight once more." 

"I've nothing left!" Dean clapped his hands on his hips, sounding more amused than aggrieved. "So I don't give a shit!" 

"As you wish," Alex shrugged, but cursed inside, for lack of money often made people do pleasant things to him out of expedience. But he certainly wouldn't beg this punker. He turned to walk away, drizzling rain hitting his heated face. Dean called out for him after a few seconds. 

"Hey! What...ehh...what was your name?" 

"No one." 

"Come on, I'm not taking a ride with NO ONE!" 

"Make up your mind already," Alex huffed to himself. Then answered, "Ok. You wait here. I'll get my car." 

Alex thought it would not be wise if they left attracting attention. Some fool might suppose they were accomplices. Dean did not protest, rolled on the balls of his feet, then touched his hurt side again and waved at Alex to go. 

Alex went around the club to the parking lot, wondering. The Dean guy was a sleuth, but Alex respected his stance. He got what was coming - the robbery. His luck was that he got out easy, the rednecks must have been drunk, but not pissed off. They were four against one, wanting easy loot. They could have beaten the living shit of the hustler to teach him the lesson otherwise. 

When he drove back to pick up his companion, Dean strolled quickly towards the car. Only then did Alex notice that the young man was bow-legged. It wasn't at once obvious, and it definitely did not lessen his appeal or the dirtiness of Alex's intent. 

Alex also noted Dean paused a second too long and gave a close look at his black Saturn Aura. Then got inside. 

"Are these the standard comforts of a middle-class manager now?" He looked around the car. His forehead had a streak of dirt and he tried to rub it off with his sleeve with little success. His hands were dirty too. He saw Alex looking at them, particularly at a three segmented bright ring, and stuffed them in his pockets. 

"So what's your name?" Dean adjusted his seat, getting cozy. 

"Alex." 

"Short for Alexander?" 

"Short for Alexei. Alex Arntzen". 

Dean studied his face now with some bare interest. The guy wasn't very subtle in his manners. But then his gut prompted that Dean could easily be putting on an act. 

"Like...a Russian Jew?" 

"There is no such thing. I have Russian blood, though. And you would be Dean...?" 

"Turner." Dean shrugged as if it really did not matter. It could be Harper, Bachman or Hutch, Alex itched. He saw fake when it was obvious. But he knew a trickster's nature and habit: the name the guy stated, like his own, would be Dean for real. 

He started the engine, then caught the direction of Dean's requesting look and put on the radio. Dean interrupted the weather report by selecting another station, skipping some female crooning with a wince. He stopped at Sweet Home Alabama, it followed by Jimmy Hendrix slowly executing his guitar. Old School rock fan, Alex noted. But much better than Bach or endless volleyball translations on a stake out night. 

"Hey, driver picks the music," Alex objected for the show. Dean flashed a wide grin at him and kept nodding his head to the rhythm. He was clearly testing how far he could go with Alex. He knew how to look at people, and they allowed him liberties or told him what he wanted to know. He would wink at you, and you'd eat out of his hand. If you'd wash him clean and smarten up his clothes, he'd look like a model. He would turn heads and think he was the King of the Hill. And then he would receive the bill and put up a fight, where then it was either resist or serve. What lay ahead of Dean was so familiar to Alex that it gave him a pang, deep, deep inside. 

"So...you are selling what? Property insurance for large companies, fire hydrants for local municipalities..." Dean looked around the car cabin that Alex kept spotless. He was sure Dean noticed that there were no files, yellow stickers, promotional leaflets, or pens marked with company logos. 

"I'm not selling anything." 

"Private business?" The guy was like a leech, but it only added to the belief he was not what he seemed to be. For a moment Alex tried to imagine what it would be like if he said he hunted aliens and has been trading state secrets for a living for the past decade. 

"No, state." Alex always enjoyed making this joke, even if he was the only one who got it. 

"No kidding?" Dean inquired. "Some monopoly then? You look loaded." 

Alex could not help but give him an "are you serious?" look. It must have been because of his black cashmere pea coat. It was costly. He had to keep his arm warm. And his wristwatch was a genuine Swiss. 

"I'm with the authorities," he said. 

"You're with the police? Or ... the military?" Dean's tone changed, Alex curved the wheel, and dropped the speed. The fog and drizzle made it nasty vision. When he looked back at Dean, he saw tension. Damn, the man did not look so focused when he pulled him out of the gutter. 

"You have a problem? With military and the authorities?" 

"I love the military," Dean shrugged, "And I'm always in there with the light and the good guys." At that Krycek noted that he squeezed his fists in his pockets. 

"So you are...passing by?" Dean kept on asking questions that would have been pointless, but not for Alex. 

"Vacation..." 

"Must be a lame one, if you had nothing else to go," Dean commented. Alex pursed his lips and kept his eyes on the road. 

"You never come to cut and shuffle," Dean said then with genuine wonder. 

"I don't know how," Alex shrugged. "I don't care much for gambling." 

"But it's easy. Takes some time to learn the tricks, but then you can go the long distance," Dean spoke like a true pro. 

" _That_ wouldn't be a problem," Alex couldn't help but dare. Dean's brow crept up and his lips twitched in what might have been incomprehension. Might have been an aversion. 

"So where are you staying?" 

"You drop me at the central crossroads, by the bowling hall." 

"There is no motel there." 

"I need to check on my car first". 

"What car?" 

"1967 Chevy Impala. Black. Six Cylinder, Turbo Thrust. All the right curves in all the right places." 

"Sounds good." In fact it sounded like car porn. Alex felt his palms go damp. Apparently talking about his car made Dean equally excited. His eyes lit up like Christmas lights. 

"Looks even better, all heads turn when my baby goes." 

The guy had a crush. And it was on his car. Alex didn't stand a chance. He did not expect such competition. 

"You love it so much you don't drive it?" 

Dean's Christmas lights went out. 

"It's...in repair. That's why I got to check on it." 

Alex did not point out the fact that at 1a.m. the repair shop would be closed. It was either that Dean did not want him to learn where he stays, or...he wasn't staying anywhere. 

He stalled at the curb, and turned to Dean. They were right where Dean asked, the street deserted. 

"You going to try your luck tomorrow?" Alex asked, because he wanted to see the fortunate, balls-twitching brassy stranger again. There was no point to deny it now. 

"Yeah. At Paw's." 

Alex wondered why the guy kept testing his luck. But did not ask it aloud. 

"I have an unfinished business," Dean commented, as if he'd read his thoughts. He gave Alex a look as if he meant something important, something that he expected Alex to understand. But the latter did not. He only noticed it was not a friendly look. 

"Where do you stay?" Dean asked. 

"Charity." 

Dean smirked, but it did not look like his last happy-go-lucky variety. 

"Lucky you." 

"I don't complain," Alex said instead of a goodbye. 

He eyed a stain of dirt on the seat where Dean just sat and wondered why Dean gave him a wary look when he said that. He was definitely going to be at Paw's tomorrow. 

When Alex made a reverse and took a turn back to Charity, he saw Dean watch him leave, a dark figure in a halo of pale light. 

...to be continued

  
 

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Title:   **SP Why So Sad (Absolutely Perfect)**   
Author:  Griva   [email/website]   
Details:   **Work-In-Progress**  |  **R**  |  **31k**  |  **03/06/08**   
Pairings:  Crossover Pairing  |  Alex Krycek / Dean Winchester   
Category:  Story, Adventure, Crossover  |  X Files / Supernatural   
Summary:  When Alex Krycek met Dean Winchester, it was not luck. He deserved it.   
Notes:  Look at those two gorgeous guys. Then think "out of the box" and enjoy the story.   
  
  
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